Cabin fever gripped me this afternoon, making me vow that come hell or high water, I was going to leave the house today. (Hell would be easier than a flood; that leg condom is difficult to maneuver, and the cast is not allowed to get wet.) So after finishing work, I peeled the bathrobe off and donned a dress. A side note: Wearing a cast means that the only pants you can reasonably wear are JNCOs. As I am unwilling to seek out the fashion castaways of '90s skater boys, this means it's all dresses, all the time.
In my dress and one moccasin, I successfully descended the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I'd walked the two and a half blocks to the video store. I was winded, so I took a break at Ritual. My podiatrist said I need to drink milk, a disgusting practice I've refused to do since leaving home, so I figured hot cocoa counts. I wrote, I finished my drink, and took five minutes to reach the overpriced grocery place across the street. There, I realized that, duh, I can't crutch and carry a basket at the same time. So I wound up shuffling along, using my right crutch to advance the basket a foot at a time. Two people helped me, which was nice. And then I took another 15 minutes to walk home.
My whole point in all of this is that if ever there were a chance to be a missed connection, this is it. I'd certainly leave one for a cute-enough girl in a dress on crutches. People like people who are a bit broken, like taking care of a baby bird who's fallen from its nest. But when I fired up ol' Craigslist, there was nary a note. There's one for some other girl who crashed her bike on Sunday, but nothing for me — yet. But it's gonna happen! I can feel it. "You were limping along in a stained dress," it'll read. "The way your asthmatic lungs heaved as you attempted the most rudimentary tasks was so alluring." Will keep you posted on inevitable developments.
In my dress and one moccasin, I successfully descended the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I'd walked the two and a half blocks to the video store. I was winded, so I took a break at Ritual. My podiatrist said I need to drink milk, a disgusting practice I've refused to do since leaving home, so I figured hot cocoa counts. I wrote, I finished my drink, and took five minutes to reach the overpriced grocery place across the street. There, I realized that, duh, I can't crutch and carry a basket at the same time. So I wound up shuffling along, using my right crutch to advance the basket a foot at a time. Two people helped me, which was nice. And then I took another 15 minutes to walk home.
My whole point in all of this is that if ever there were a chance to be a missed connection, this is it. I'd certainly leave one for a cute-enough girl in a dress on crutches. People like people who are a bit broken, like taking care of a baby bird who's fallen from its nest. But when I fired up ol' Craigslist, there was nary a note. There's one for some other girl who crashed her bike on Sunday, but nothing for me — yet. But it's gonna happen! I can feel it. "You were limping along in a stained dress," it'll read. "The way your asthmatic lungs heaved as you attempted the most rudimentary tasks was so alluring." Will keep you posted on inevitable developments.
Labels: i can't walk, san francisco
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